


how inconvenient (to be made of desire)

by doppler



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-05-26 06:05:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14994437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doppler/pseuds/doppler
Summary: “We’re going to take over this city,” Connor had mumbled, lips pressed just above Taylor’s pulse point, making Taylor’s nerves feel on fire, in a night that Taylor could easily deem the beginning of the end of his stay in Edmonton, if he was going to.And if Taylor had been smart enough to blame it on Connor’s fucked-out brain, if he hadn’t let Connor’s words cut through his heart, and nest right inside of it, then he would’ve never been sitting here, with the sun hitting his shirtless back as he read over the news of his trade, fully resigned.





	how inconvenient (to be made of desire)

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [thistidalwave](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thistidalwave/pseuds/thistidalwave) in the [PuckingRare2018](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/PuckingRare2018) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
>
>> “Farewells can be shattering, but returns are surely worse. Solid flesh can never live up to the bright shadow of absence.” — Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin  
> 
> 
>   
>  This prompt came into my house and set it on fire. This technically takes place during/after the season after Taylor gets traded. I tried my hand with something that I haven't done in a long time, hopefully the result is somewhat decent! Title is from Abject permanence by Larissa Pham.  
> HUGE thanks to Michi and Dell! 

 

 _So that’s Connor McDavid_ , Taylor thinks, eyes fixated on Connor’s frame, half changed into his hockey gear for what promises to be a _gross_ training camp session, looking right at fucking home, while Taylor bends down to pick his tape.

He’s smiling over something _someone_ just said, like it’s the funniest joke he’s ever heard and his red cheeks and blonde hair are shining under the harsh lights of the locker room in a way that shouldn’t catch Taylor’s eyes—

Because it’s just like staring into the fucking sun. Down to the way Connor’s stare burns right through Taylor, seemingly piercing through skin, muscle and bone and reaching his very core.

And like the sun, he pulls Taylor in, magnetic in the way his gaze makes Taylor walk forward and introduce himself, shaking his hands and saying the customary _welcome to the Oilers_ , except all he can think is about the firm grip of Connor’s hand on his, on the unvoiced promises his eyes hold.

 

**&**

 

“Shh, _shh_ , Connor,” Taylor hushes, bringing a hand to cover Connor’s mouth, and wants to die a little when all Connor does is lick his palm and quirk an eyebrow. “Let me open the door, idiot,” he continues, bringing his hand back to the lock, trying for the third time to enter the right key to their apartment door and pointedly ignoring the way Connor’s body presses up against his, the way his hands seem to burn a trail of fire right under his dress shirt, their suit jackets hastily left in a heap in Taylor’s backseat.

Maybe Jordan was right about getting most of the guys drunk at the Casino Night not being the best idea, and _maybe_ , just maybe, egging him on all night like he did wasn’t the best idea if he wanted to—but it was probably the most fun he had had in quite a while, if he was being honest.

“ _Connor_ ,” he says as soon as they manage to walk inside the apartment, all tangled up, right after Connor manages to press Taylor up against the door once he attempts to lock it from inside.

“Hm?” Connor replies, nuzzling Taylor’s neck, touching him all over, and all Taylor can do is laugh at the way Connor is pressing his front against the door, eager and incredibly needy, like he can’t get enough of Taylor, like he’s fucking intoxicating.

“I want to touch you, too,” Taylor breathes out, going a little mad over the way he can feel Connor’s body burning like a furnace through his clothing, breathless and half hard through his pants, right against his ass. Before he knows it, he feels the door against his back, and Connor’s lips are on his, vicious, as his uncoordinated hands do a poor job of unbuttoning Taylor’s shirt, ripping more than a few buttons off of it.

Just before Taylor has half the brain to take his shirt off, Connor’s lips are burning a trail down his neck, chest, and he’s on his fucking knees, smirking in that way Taylor _knew_ he was capable of the first time Connor pressed him up against a wall and made out with him. Connor undoes his belt sloppily, getting his pants and boxers out of the way in the same manner. Every nerve in Taylor’s body feels on fire once Connor’s lips finally make contact with his skin, thinks _it was definitely worth it_ as he lets out a shaky breath and lets his full weight rest on the door.

 

**&**

 

“So, Connor,” Jordan had said in the middle of a pretty crowded restaurant, a couple of nights after Taylor and Connor had left the venue for the Casino Night in a rush, effectively making Taylor choke on his glass of water, and Ryan smile amusedly over the rim of his own glass.

Taylor coughs twice, curses himself internally, and then manages to say “What about him?” aiming for casual and missing by a mile.

“ _You_ ,” Ryan starts, and he’s still fucking _smiling_ , and Taylor feels almost embarrassed right now. “And _Connor_ ,” he finishes, pointedly placing his glass on the table, staring right into Taylor’s eyes.

“There’s nothing about it,” Taylor replies, and really, he’s not exactly _lying_ , because Connor and him aren’t a _thing_. They are just—having fun, as much fun as he can have with the press breathing down his neck. He’s not exactly _lying_ , sure, but he’s not being fully honest either.

Ryan raises his hands up in surrender, while Jordan discreetly throws a rolled up napkin at Taylor, and they all laugh, a little secretive thing, a comfortable joke between the three of them.

And that’s that.

 

**&  **

 

“We’re going to take over this city,” Connor had mumbled, lips pressed just above Taylor’s pulse point, making Taylor’s nerves feel on fire, in a night that Taylor could easily deem the beginning of the end of his stay in Edmonton, if he was going to.

They were lying in Taylor’s bed, just mere minutes after the first time Taylor had pressed Connor against his mattress and listened to the way his body responded to every single touch, every little hitch of his breath, every single plead for more that seemed to drip from his lips, tasting sweet like honey.

Taylor had laughed, then, a bright little thing, tracing a pattern over Connor’s shoulder blades with his index finger. You will, he wanted to say. There’s already a price on my head.

“We will,” Connor had repeated, not moving one limb, pressing a wet kiss right where his mouth was touching Taylor’s skin.

And if Taylor had been smart enough to blame it on Connor’s fucked-out brain, if he hadn’t let Connor’s words cut through his heart, and nest right inside of it, then he would’ve never been sitting here, with the sun hitting his shirtless back as he read over the news of his trade, fully resigned.

 

**&**

 

Connor calls. Taylor doesn’t answer.

God, but he wants to. He wants to pick up the phone, to tell Connor to take care and to be careful, hold him tight one last time before he’s gone, 2,443 miles away, only to see each other two times per season.

He goes to Jersey instead, and tries not to think too much about anything that’s not proving everyone wrong.

He’s never been particularly good with goodbyes.

 

**&**

  

If there’s something he will admit to himself, it’s that he misses Jordan. Toothless smile and all.

Even if Jordan knows him well enough to cut through the bullshit and go straight for the fucking jugular.

“So, can he call you?” Jordan says on one uneventful phone call, frankly out of the blue. He succeeds in making Taylor choke on his own breath, so that’s _something_. “He’s been asking,” he continues, and the matter of fact tone of his voice is something Taylor can easily notice, even with just how far away he sounds. “It’s not his _fault_ , Hallsy,” Jordan finishes, and something seems to squeeze Taylor’s heart.

If there’s something he won’t admit to himself, it's that he misses Connor.

If there’s something that Jordan’s forcing him to admit, it’s that he’s being unfair to Connor.

“Yeah,” Taylor replies, after what felt like an eternity, guilt building up at the pit of his stomach over his anger directed at Connor, at Edmonton, at everything. “Tell him he can, Ebs,” He adds, after clearing his throat.

Connor calls the next day.

 

**&**

 

“Hey, Hallsy,” is the first thing he hears, once he slides to answer. He leans back against the comfortable couch he splurged a probably ridiculous amount of money on and mutes ESPN, so he can let Connor’s voice wash over him.

“Hey there, Davo,” Taylor shoots back, eyes focused on the flatscreen as it plays some basketball game he hadn’t really been paying attention until now.

“How are you?” Connor inquires, earnestly, and Taylor would be lying if he said that it didn’t make something stir in him, the part of him that missed Connor and Jordan and everyone way too fucking much.

“I’m good,” Taylor says, because—it’s true. He’s good, given the circumstances, his head is in the right place—most of the time. “At home, watching some TV—you know, the usual,” he had just finished dinner, and was thinking of either calling his mom or heading up to sleep like a fucking old man. “You?” he adds, maybe a beat too late.

“Oh, I’m driving back home,” Connor says, and that explains why his voice sounded so far away. The reprimand about being on the phone while driving sits on the tip of his tongue, but Taylor swallows it. “I was on a shoot, for a sponsorship,” Connor adds, almost as an afterthought, and Taylor’s probably imagining things, but Connor sounds a little bit out of it, like he’s holding the steering wheel too tightly, like he maybe wishes he had Taylor’s hand on his knee.

“They better be paying you those extra hours,” Taylor replies then, trying to startle a laugh out of Connor, his own lips curling up into a smile when he hears that subdued chuckle he’s grown familiar to.

“How’s Jersey?” he asks, and there’s a new edge on Connor’s voice that wasn’t there approximately a month ago, the last time they talked on the phone.

“It’s...peaceful,” Taylor replies, thinking of being able to walk down the street mostly anonymously, of the media not being all over him, working on breaking him down every single time he did anything that wasn’t ideal during a game or interview. He then contemplates the practically bare walls around him, the lack of shoes next to his by the door— _A little bit lonely_ , he wants to add. He doesn’t think that’s the best thing to tell Connor right now. “How’s Edmonton?” Taylor asks, out of politeness—he really doesn’t want to hear Connor, or anyone really, telling him about the city, the team, nevermind the fact that he still checks their scores.

“Fucking freezing,” Connor starts, and here’s where Taylor would say something about warming Connor up, spreading his arms and legs, suggestive, succeeding in both making him laugh and getting him right where Taylor wanted him.

That doesn’t feel particularly right, now.

He doesn’t give Taylor enough time to ponder on what the fuck he should say, because he asks “You’re coming next week, right?” after a couple of moments of stilted silence. He sounds like he has way too many words to say, like he can’t find them—like he’s burdened by the weight on his shoulders, like something has his neck in a vice-like grip, and Taylor wants to say _I should’ve told you this would happen_ and _they’ll rip your heart out, too_.

And he _knows_ that it's going to be his first time back in Edmonton. The date’s been marked in his fucking phone ever since he got traded—he _really_ needs to work on letting all of this go instead of acting like it’s already water under the bridge—and still, all he does is hum in agreement, acknowledging Connor’s word, letting him go on.

There’s nothing but silence, again.

“Would you, maybe—want to go out for dinner with me the night you get here?” Connor says rapidly, voice cutting through the silence like a knife, like the words have been stuck at the tip of his tongue for longer than this phone call has lasted. It makes Taylor smile a little.

“Of course, Davo,” Taylor replies, voice softening at the end of the sentence, Connor’s nickname a bittersweet little thing dripping from his lips. He can’t see Connor, but he can very well imagine his shoulders dropping, his hand coming up to push the hair out of his face, his features bathed in the faint red of the stop lights near their— _Connor_ ’s apartment building. “Of _course_.”

 

**&**

 

They never did learn how to cook anything other than pasta, and really, that’s not the kind of meal you want to have after a long week of game after game. So here they are, half a sushi menu scattered all over the coffee table as ESPN serves as comfortable background noise, the lights low, Connor’s feet casually on Taylor’s lap, because that’s something they’ve done quite a few times, now.

“Did Ebs really do that?” Connor laughs, a delighted little thing, picturing a drunk Jordan Eberle carrying his mattress towards the bathroom after a night of shenanigans.

“He was a true visionary,” Taylor starts, pausing to eat a veggie roll. “Definitely ahead of me,” he finishes, right after he swallows, because he’s not a heathen.

“What about you?” Connor asks, after taking a bite of eel, looking genuinely curious.

“I never really made it as far as the bathroom,” Taylor says, sheepishly, thinking of just how many times he’d woken up to the awful task of cleaning up his own messes while Jordan just snored ( _loudly_ ) away in his bathroom. And apparently this bit of information is fucking _hilarious_ , because Connor’s laughing so hard he’s shaking with it, enough to have Taylor cursing him out, which just makes him laugh harder.

“Will you pass me the yellowfin?” Connor requests, after he’s done laughing at Taylor’s expense.

Taylor reaches over to grab the container right in front of him, pausing for a moment before smiling a little devilishly. “Oh, but there’s a price,” Taylor states, holding the container in his hands, far out from Connor’s reach.

“Name it,” Connor replies, his smile mirroring Taylor’s.

“A kiss,” Taylor says, immediately puckering up his lips, fully joking and ready to hand the container at Connor’s first eye roll.

“That’s fair,” and before he has any time to think about it, Connor’s moving until he’s close enough incorporating himself so he can smack a loud kiss on Taylor’s lips, and take the container with him, victorious, leaving Taylor feeling warm all over.

 

**&**

 

Dinner is a quite relaxed affair if Taylor ignores the growing tension that starts to pull Connor’s shoulders taut as the meal goes on. Connor’s clearly stretched thin, even if he still laughs at the same old stupid jokes Taylor does, or shares the stories about Jordan and the rest of his—the guys he was once teammates with.

 _This Connor is not your Connor_ , Taylor thinks, walking the hallway that leads towards his hotel room, Connor’s looming presence behind him, inches away from his frame, but not touching him just yet. It’s quiet, and it hits Taylor like a brick, that Connor’s not what Taylor remembers him to be—burning so bright like a fucking sun, with his own orbit, broad shoulders and head held up high—but there’s definitely still some of that spark, that magnetic pull that got Taylor the first time, and the ones after that.

The tension in the air is palpable, and Taylor wracks his brain looking for _something_ , anything to say to make everything less solemn, more of what they used to be—finds that he doesn’t have those words anymore as he lets Connor in immediately after opening the door to his room.

“Do you want to?” Connor asks, as soon as Taylor closes the door and turns around to face Connor. His voice is unsure, but his face betrays him, his eyes all but pleading, like the weight on top his shoulders is about to send him toppling over, like all that he needs is Taylor to pin him down and promise everything will be alright.

“Of course, Davo,” Taylor replies, gently, his left hand reaching out to touch Connor’s cheek.

Connor’s eyes flutter shut, and he leans into Taylor’s touch like he’s starving for it. They stay like that for a moment that feels like an eternity, a moment where Connor stops being _Connor_ , hockey savior Connor, and Taylor stops being _Taylor_ , the Edmonton Oilers’ latest fluke pick, where they are just Connor-and-Taylor, not in love but close enough to it for it all to taste bitter sweet and sepia.

The way Connor’s hands grip Taylor’s waist and pull him in are a sharp contrast to the icy way his lips seem to burn on Taylor’s own at first, and on his neck, down to his chest, later.

Taylor allows himself to listen to the thump of his heart on his ears and lets go, one last time.

 

•

•

•

**&**

Some fires just aren’t meant to burn forever.

**Author's Note:**

> [...] Even now, want rises up in me like a hot oil. I want so much that it scares me.


End file.
